


Contact

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, HLV-Fix it, Johnlock - Freeform, Kind of Fix It, Love, M/M, New Relationship, Oral Sex, Pre-Relationship, Rimming, Top John, mary is a villian, mentions of torture, possible alcohol abuse, post-HLV, why don't they just TALK to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t think I’ll want to talk about this again.  There’s no point.  But I have to ask, did you even once…at least tell me, while I was dying back here, waltzing into a goddamn spider’s snare, at least tell me you thought of me when you were away.”</p><p>Sherlock blinks once, twice, then stands up.</p><p>“Of course.  Of course you can’t even answer that.  Go, go sulk in your room.”</p><p>“No, John.  I’m going to answer you,” Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt.  “You’re the one who’s still not ‘getting it.’  Moriarty was never going to kill me, not straight away.  He was going to kill YOU."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemmonysnippets (hum_hum_humbug)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hum_hum_humbug/gifts).



> This was inspired by [lemmonysnippets](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/), particularly
> 
> [this post](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/post/92692323805/one-word-sherlock-that-is-all-i-would-have) and [this post](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/post/92729903435/au-where-everything-is-how-i-want-it-to-be-and-i),   
> particularly these specific lines:  
> "At least tell me that you thought of me when you were away."  
> and  
> "If you believe nothing else, please believe that I scarcely thought of anything else."
> 
> It snowballed into much more than these, but you'll see the relationship and the lines and because that was the inspiration, of course this fic is gifted.
> 
> Also, I blatantly pull from head-canons used in my other stories, because my head-canons are my head-canons, YO.

John is on his way to drunk. John has been drunk more often than not in the past several months. Since Christmas, since Sherlock shot Magnussen, since Moriarty’s “return,” since Mycroft and Sherlock FINALLY revealed their plan to him, yes, John has spent a good many nights with a bottle of scotch.

He had been surprised when Sherlock insisted he try forgiving Mary. Sherlock wasn’t one for forgiveness, he never had been. But he had pushed, and John had complied, thinking that maybe his best friend truly wanted him to have a chance at happiness. John didn’t want to. He had said as much. He wanted to stay with (his) Sherlock, his best friend, in his home and resume his old life. John had always wished he could somehow go back in time and erase Sherlock’s fall, go back to that old life, and while he rationally knew it was just fantasy, he had never wished it so hard than after Mary shot Sherlock. He often wondered where they would be if Sherlock hadn’t “died” for two years and left him alone. The time alone with a convalescing Sherlock had given him time to _think._

The alcohol also caused him to think, perhaps a little too much.

But of course it had been another ruse. Sherlock had convinced John to not read the memory stick. “Destroy it. It will only destroy you, John.” But John had kept his own little secret. He never destroyed it. He brought an exact copy to “destroy.” He kept the original, just in case. Not even Sherlock suspected, the smarmy bastard.

Of course John never believed Sherlock truly just intended him to go back to Mary, let her off scot free. Not really. Ever since he returned, John has always harbored a bit of doubt in what Sherlock says to him. Not in a malicious way, he would never believe Sherlock would deceive him with the intent of personal damage. He trusts Sherlock that much, always will. He’d trust Sherlock with his life. But ever since his return…yeah, John has always been prepared for the other shoe to drop. He was scared. John would always be scared.

He’s glad he did, this time. John’s glad he was scared, and had the forethought to make some decisions of his own.   Part of him had thought it was just a bit of paranoia as he carefully copied “A.G.R.A.” on the matching drive, but the paranoia paid off this time. After Moriarty’s return and Sherlock’s four-minute exile, John had never been so sure that he, once again, wasn’t fully privy to the situation.

Still, that had done nothing to temper his reaction. After Sherlock had descended the steps, John had been unabashed in his joy. Before he could even stop himself, John had erupted in a full-out sprint, practically tackling Sherlock to the ground in a bear hug. John had been terrified. Those few minutes after Sherlock exited the plane showed John how truly terrified he’d been that he was losing Sherlock again. He’d gotten Sherlock back, a miracle. AGAIN. Three miracles. How long before they ran out?

 _“The game is never over, John. There just might be some new players now.”_ John’s not an idiot. He knows what Sherlock was trying to say. Or at least pretending to try to say, with Mary in earshot. “I’m not a part of your life now, but you have someone better to play the game with.  Play with her.” A surrender that Mary could hear.

“Game,” John mutters to himself, swirling the scotch in his glass. Sherlock doesn’t respond from his perch in the kitchen. John takes another swig and stares blindly at Sherlock’s empty leather chair.

Of course, maybe he had meant something else. Maybe it had been a signal, an attempt to let John know what was really going on. A game. “ _It’s just a magic trick, John.”_ Because not five minutes after the plane had taken off, it was landing again. And John was squeezing Sherlock on a windy tarmac while his wife stood near their car, watching. He didn’t see the look on her face, although Mycroft had explained it later. _“Murderous.”_ John had been too busy hanging on to his best friend for dear life. Sherlock was staying. John had wanted to press him into his body and never let him go again. He had actually been scared of his own response, when he thought about it later. Nothing short of visceral.

Then Sherlock had been swept into Mycroft’s government car, with promises that he would text John as soon as he could. And John had been sad that he wasn’t immediately asked to tag along, but still immensely pleased that he wasn’t losing Sherlock. Again.

Almost a week had gone by before he received any contact from Sherlock.

_I’m sorry, I wanted to contact you sooner. This is a burner. Mycroft doesn’t want you close. SH_

_Where are you?!?_

_Baker Street. But it’s under heavy surveillance. Don’t come here. We’re working some things out. I’ll contact you with information when I can. SH_

_I want to help._

_You are. Please be careful, John. SH_

_You too._

Another week passed. John had texted Sherlock himself. He was going crazy with waiting. And things with Mary weren’t exactly…good.

_How’re things?_

_Getting closer._ Sherlock’s response had been almost immediate _. Are you alright? SH_

_Yes. But strained. I don’t know how this will work._

_Please don’t do anything rash. When I can explain, I will. SH_

It wasn’t long before John looked at the memory stick. He was drunk, of course. Mary was out for the time being. She was less than a month away from delivery and under other circumstances John would have advised her against it, but he needed time alone with his bottle. John needed two tumblers of scotch before he was even able to get in a bed with Mary, let alone show any hint of affection. Thankfully she had taken him at his word of still being “pissed,” and didn’t push too much. But it was awful. And never once had she asked how Sherlock was doing. John found that strange, considering she had wished him off to what John had essentially worked out to be his death. (John isn’t stupid, no matter what Sherlock thinks.)

John threw up his dinner halfway through the file.

And then when he finished reading, he went to Baker Street. Fuck surveillance. Moriarty himself could have shown up and John would have strangled him with his bare hands. He bounded up the stairs and banged the door open. Both Sherlock and Mycroft were in the sitting room.

“What the FUCK is going on?!?”

“John?” Sherlock had jumped up, shocked.

“You knew about this!” John thrust the memory stick at Sherlock. “Didn’t you?!?! You read it and you knew!”

“John…” Sherlock held his hands up in an attempt to placate. “John, I did, and I wanted to…”

“But I stopped him,” Mycroft stood up. “The less you knew, the better. The safer you’d be. And the more successful this would be.”

“Successful? THIS?!?”

He barely remembers the conversation. Mycroft had calmly explained how he knew Mary had been in the employ of Jim Moriarty, and while he always suspected that Moriarty may not have actually died—there was no body found—the video was, in fact, not actually Moriarty. It was a ploy. Mary was still working. She had actually botched a job for Magnussen, who had hoped to use that and the information he had on Mary to work up to Mycroft (at least that part was true). But Mary had been in constant contact with someone out of the country, promising “more time.” The pregnancy was fake. That had actually surprised John the least. Her mystery correspondent had advised her into that, for whatever reason. That was, somewhat, understandable. But John had no idea what she was going to do before the due date. Stillborn while John wasn’t around? Buy a baby? He had no idea.

The plan had been to flush Mary out. Take her and, hopefully, find out information on her secret friend, who Mycroft had a sneaking suspicion was Jim Moriarty.   Something about Sherlock not being able to finish his work when he was gone. John didn’t really care. All he heard during Mycroft’s rather long explanation was “You’re a pawn. You’re a pawn. You’re a pawn.”

Sherlock had stared at him the whole time, his face a mix of sadness and regret. Or maybe it was an act. John’s not sure he wants to know, anymore.

Of course it worked. Mycroft’s plans always work. “Mary” was now in the custody of MI6. Sherlock had vanquished the “threat of Moriarty” and was once again hailed as a hero. (The public never found out he shot Magnussen.) And John was back at Baker Street. Part of him resented it, willingly going back. But he couldn’t stay in his flat, COULDN’T, and he really had no place else to go. John packed his clothes and sold everything else and came back. Sherlock had been thrilled, even ordered take-away and bought John’s favorite micro-brew for the night he officially moved back in. And John had ignored it, swallowing pointedly before dragging his bags up the stairs and shutting himself in his old room. He was more than angry that it appeared as if Sherlock thought everything would just go back to the way it was.

Even if he was touched about the beer. For someone who deletes common knowledge so readily, Sherlock managed to remember his favorite beer. John never thanked him.

John’s been back for all of two weeks. He’s gone through about six bottles of scotch in that time, blown up at Sherlock at least a dozen times. John thinks he’s entitled to it, after all. He’s entitled to the bitterness, the biting replies, passive-aggressive insults. He knows Sherlock is allowing it because he doesn’t know how else to make John feel better, and he’s grateful for that slight consideration, he is. John is eternally grateful that in all this, at the end of the day, at least Sherlock is there. But he is also very quick to cut Sherlock to the core with his anger. And after everything, after all the bullshit, John can’t help himself from thinking that Sherlock is LUCKY John is his friend.

Today, Sherlock has been keeping his distance. John doesn’t blame him after this morning.

He blew up again. A mess in the kitchen, body parts in various states of decomposition littering the table, counter, inside the OVEN, and a hangover to boot.

_“MOTHERFUCKER, Sherlock! Is it too much to ask, REALLY, to not come down to a bloody morgue in the kitchen every morning?!? I won’t live in this anymore! I can easily find my own flat not filled with biohazardous waste and chemicals and all sorts of nonsense! Someplace NORMAL. I think I deserve it.”_

He had just barely seen Sherlock’s face fall, heard him mutter, “I’ll clean up…” before turning on his heel and going back upstairs. John wasn’t in the mood. He stayed upstairs most of the day. When he finally came down, Sherlock was off somewhere and didn’t return until after dinner. John hadn’t left him any.

Once again John is on his way to drunk, and Sherlock is far away, fiddling with some disgusting experiment in the kitchen. And once again, John’s mind is drifting to his fantasies of the life they would be living had the past three years never happened.

“Come have a drink with me.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

John can’t be sure, but he swears he actually _felt_ Sherlock stiffen behind his microscope. He gets both a sharp stab of vindication and a twist of regret at the notion. But that’s Sherlock, he’s always prompted a strange combination of emotion in John.

“Come on, Sherlock.” John reaches over to the bottle on the table next to his chair, refills his glass. “The scotch is good. I’m putting that reward money to good use.” There had been reward money, actual fucking reward money, for “Mary’s” capture. At least Mycroft had the decency to make sure it went to John. His bank account was now much fatter. Sherlock had wasted no time in pointing out that now John could quit the clinic and they could solve crimes full-time. It hadn’t been the best response, in John’s opinion.

“I’m cataloging my—”

“I could use the company. Never drink alone…” John cuts him off. He hears Sherlock huff out his nose, then the chair pushes back. He makes his way into the sitting room, tentatively sitting in his chair opposite John. He sits straight-backed and stiff, hands clasped between his thighs.

“You didn’t bring a glass. You can’t have a drink with me without a glass.”

“I’m not overly thirsty, John.”

“Hmmmm…but you have to try this scotch. Cost me 100 quid. Here,” John leans out, thrusts his glass at Sherlock. “Take mine. I’ll use the bottle.”

Sherlock looks from the glass to John’s face, then to the bottle, then back to the glass being held out to him. His eyes look wary. John would say almost sad, but….well. He slowly takes the glass from John.

“There.” John shifts back in his armchair. He grabs the bottle and rests it between his thighs on the cushion. “Try it.”

Sherlock takes a small sip. John can’t help but notice that his lips touch the glass exactly where the smudge from John’s mouth is. “It’s good.”

“See?” John takes a swig straight from the bottle. “I knew you’d like it.” Sherlock takes another drink, but doesn’t relax much. “I see you cleaned the kitchen when I was upstairs.”

“I thought I should.” Sherlock fidgets slightly and looks at his feet.

“You know, I didn’t mean what I said this morning.” Of course John didn’t mean it. John knew he didn’t mean it when he said it.

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock drinks some more scotch. “I know you’ve been angry lately. I don’t blame you.”

“Heh! Heheheh.” John chuckles humorlessly. “’Angry.’” He sinks further into his chair, takes another pull on his bottle. “Regardless, I didn’t mean it. Well, not the way it came out, anyway.”

“I’m glad.” Sherlock says softly, eyes focused on his glass.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Not hungry.”

“You’re losing weight again. After I finally fattened you up a bit.”

Sherlock eyes him warily. “John, I’m really not in the mood for lectures or, whatever else…”

John knows what he’s saying. _I don’t want to listen to you pick on me anymore, John, not tonight. I’m tired, too._

“I’ve always picked on your eating, Sherlock. You don’t eat enough.”

“…yes, well. It’s clear by your posture and your state of inebriation that my dietary habits are not your main concern tonight.”

“Deduced that, did you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock looks him straight in the eye and takes a sip of his scotch from John’s glass. The light from the kitchen is throwing shadows into the room and John can’t help when his brain shifts its focus. John has always found Sherlock attractive. Most people do. But sometimes, even after all these years, he still takes John’s breath away. His white skin—pale from lack of outside light and probably a bit of malnutrition—practically glows in the low light. His cheekbones lie in sharp contrast to the soft mass of curls that cradle that enormous, constantly whirring brain. Sherlock looks ethereal and otherworldly and as if he’d be cold to the touch, a marble statue. But John has touched him, he knows Sherlock is warm and soft and remarkably breakable.

Or at least his transport is.

John resents these feelings, and he resents how the alcohol makes the feelings come more readily. He had stifled them for so long, the affection—and attraction, he can admit it—in the years _before_ , when Sherlock was nothing but a machine who had taken an unusual interest in him. Because why think about it? Why focus on the unearthly tug, like an invisible tether that dug directly into John’s gut? It simply was, and there was no point in dwelling on it. He had been content, if not entirely fulfilled. It worked. And he was able to forget that strange pull because Sherlock was always there. Organisms adapt to their surroundings, John adapted to the constant nag.  And then Sherlock died and he was left with a gaping wound and he remembered everything, he remembered it all, and he hated both himself and Sherlock for allowing it to end that way.

John thinks back to the day he tore Baker Street apart, looking for photographs of Sherlock, anything, to remember. He remembers how he woke in a panic one night, terrified he’d forget the color of Sherlock’s eyes. And he remembers how the only pictures he could really find were tabloids, terrible pictures of Sherlock in that fucking hat and John lurking behind him, usually with “FRAUD” written in the by-line in giant, angry letters.

Then Mary waltzed into his life and it was a distraction, at least. She seemed to understand.

Then Sherlock came back, and, well, everything has been a struggle since then, because it’s not quite as easy to simply forget as it was before. Because despite everything, despite his wedding and the impending child and the deception—which Sherlock still didn’t seem to understand was a problem—and then the bullshit that was to follow, John couldn’t help but notice that the hole wasn’t there anymore. There was no more gaping wound.

Even when he hates him John adores him.

“Fuck you,” John simply replies. Another gulp sears down his chest. “What else have you deduced?” John leans back and smiles, but it’s a forced smile. Sherlock notices.

“You’re angry with me.”

“I’m angry at everyone, Sherlock, not just you.”

“Yes, but…you’re particularly angry with me.” Sherlock takes another sip of his scotch. “And I’ve told you I’m sorry and I don’t see the point of me saying it anymore.” John detects a hint of bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t blame him in the least.

“If you’re so sorry, why’d you do it to begin with?” John realizes the double-entendre of his question, the dual meaning. He could be talking about the deception with Mary, or he could be talking about the fall, when Sherlock left him alone. _Why did you leave, Sherlock? Why didn’t you trust me? Why did you leave me miserable and barely alive and free to walk into this mess? And WHY are you saying you’re sorry since you’ve never said you wished you’d done it differently?_

Sherlock answers, but John can’t tell if he understands the duality of the question. “It…” he says, evenly, “it had to be done.”

“Then why do you say you’re sorry? If you wouldn’t do it differently?”

“I’m not sorry I did it, John.” Sherlock states flatly, his eyes narrowly sharply. “But I am sorry you feel the way you do.”

John scoffs loudly. The fingers of his left hand are dancing nervously on the arm chair. It’s been bothering him recently. His leg, too. “You? You care that I’m upset?”

“Of course, John.” Sherlock’s expression softens, just a bit, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “You’re my best friend. Of course I care when you’re upset or angry or unhappy.” His nose crinkles, just slightly. It always does that, when he doesn’t understand. “I don’t like when you’re unhappy.”

“Yes, well, I can imagine it makes life a bit more tedious when you have to put up with me,” John derides and drinks again. Sherlock looks directly at the bottle, just briefly, then returns his gaze directly to John’s.

“No, John. You don’t understand. I’d like for you to be happy. I’m inconsequential in that regard. I care about your feelings simply because I care.”

“I-I don’t understand? I don’t UNDERSTAND?!” That does John in, and he pushes himself to the edge of his armchair.

“Yes. My point was not to deceive you, but I had to. For your safety. Mary would have known immediately if….”

“You STILL think this is JUST about MARY?!” John throws his arms up, shrugging to an audience that isn’t there. He can’t stand that Sherlock doesn’t understand. Is it willful, or is he that obtuse to the feelings natural to human beings? “You LEFT! You LEFT and you LIED and I was ALONE! What about my fucking feelings then, huh? Did you think about them once? Did you think about anyone you left behind?!”

Sherlock’s eyes widen as he finally picks up on what John is talking about. “John—”

“And then, you were going to fucking leave again, Sherlock! I thought you were going away, AGAIN. And then it turned out that was ANOTHER LIE. The ONLY thing that makes it better is this time I didn’t think you were dead for two years. So thanks, I guess, for that,” John sneers. Almost a year’s worth of anger and hurt and unspoken emotion are bubbling to the surface.

“John,” Sherlock tries again. “I never meant for it to take so long…”

“Oh! So you thought I’d only be grieving for six months? A year? What about this time, Sherlock? I’m not an idiot, I knew you meant for me—for MARY—to think you weren’t coming back. Do you know what that did to me? Thinking I was losing you, AGAIN?”

“John.”

“Anything, Sherlock. Any sign, any hint of what was going on. I would have let you do what you needed to. But I will NEVER forgive you for allowing me to think—TWICE—that you were dead.”

“I told you, John, I…so many times I almost contacted you,” Sherlock starts, hesitantly. “I wanted to. I wanted to tell you. This time too. But I couldn’t, it would have ruined everything.”

“Oh, so I would have hindered you?!” John is incredulous. “You know, it’s funny…it’s almost like you’ve forgotten every time I got your bloody arse out of a spot.”

“That’s not what I mean, John…”

“Then what did you mean?” John sinks back farther into his chair, and his eyes narrow as he volleys the question back at Sherlock. _Tell me what you meant, arsehole._ “Tell me how I would have ruined your grand adventure? How me KNOWING you weren’t dead would have ruined everything? I could have come. You know, I thought we had some pretty good adventures, together.”

“Yes, John, but I was worried you’d do something and it would be revealed that I was alive—”

“Then you should have let me come with you, Sherlock.” John takes another swig. He really should stop. “You know, _that_ is what bothers me the most. I can understand how you, in your twisted way, would have thought it was perfectly acceptable to let everyone who cared about you think you were dead. I get it. I get that you don’t get it and you never will. But what I don’t get, really, is why you insisted on keeping me in the dark. ME. Why I couldn’t come. Why you kept me in the dark with Mary, or whatever-the-fuck her name actually is. Why still, why, after all this time, you still don’t have enough trust in me to let me in on your plans!  To let me be a part of them!”

“John,” Sherlock treads lightly, trying to diffuse a drunk John and a situation spiraling out of his control. He honestly isn’t sure what exactly they’re discussing anymore, and he’s not sure John knows either. “We both know you’re a terrible liar. You know you’re a terrible liar…it was safer for you to not know, Mary would have known instantly and therefore Moriarty’s group would have--”

“Ok, fine. FINE about Mary and the lying. But that still doesn’t explain why you left me for two years—two FUCKING years—Sherlock, to sit and wallow in London. One word, Sherlock! I told you before, I would have needed one word. Or, here’s a thought! I could have come. You should have asked, I would have come with you! THAT’S different than Mary. I could have come with you. You should have taken me with you!”

“It was impossible, John…”

“Oh, that’s right! I would have RUINED everything.”

“JOHN! They would have killed you!”

“They’re always trying to kill me, Sherlock.” John spits. “Hazard of the job, working with you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, inhales sharply through his nose. John knows he’s trying to be level-headed, a very un-Sherlock thing to do. Sherlock has been, and John hates to admit it, the more rational of the two since he’s been back at Baker Street. John knows it’s exhausting for him, and again, he constantly waffles between feeling sorry for his best friend and thinking he’s finally getting his just desserts.

“John…this wasn’t like the work. They were going to kill you. Moriarty was going to kill you.”

“He was going to kill you too! He always was!” John snorts and sits back. “You know, you don’t get it. You will never get it. I ask you why and all you do is repeat the same bullshit. ‘He was going to kill you.’ You know,” John tries to swallow his anger down, knows he’s about to say something he’ll regret before it even leaves his mouth. Scotch. “At least if I was with you, we could have died together. Instead you left me to die here slowly in London without you.” He takes another drink, doesn’t notice Sherlock’s flinch. “I don’t think I’ll want to talk about this again. There’s no point. But I have to ask, did you even once…at least tell me, while I was dying back here, waltzing into a goddamn spider’s snare, at least tell me you thought of me when you were away.”

Sherlock blinks once, twice, then stands up.

“Of course. Of course you can’t even answer that. Go, go sulk in your room.”

“No, John. I’m going to answer you,” Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re the one who’s still not ‘getting it.’ Moriarty was never going to kill me, not straight away. He was going to kill YOU. That was his plan. Force my suicide by making me watch his snipers kill my friends. YOU. That’s why I sent you away so I could meet Moriarty. I knew he would go after you, he did before. I didn’t want you there. But then you showed up anyway—you always were faster than most people—and I had to do it. Mycroft, damn him, had foreseen it. Somehow. Omniscience is his skill. But I had to kill myself and make sure you knew I was dead. Or you were dead.” Sherlock has finished unbuttoning his shirt, is breathing hard as he stands in front of John’s chair. “If there was any, ANY, indication from you that I was alive, they’d have killed you. Moriarty’s people were all over the world, I had to destroy them. And one still found you! Although I guess I should be grateful she fell in some sort of twisted love with you, it at least bought us time. Because had she not, you would have been dead the night I returned. And I couldn’t take you with me, I wouldn’t…” Sherlock takes off his shirt and spins around. The noise that escapes John’s throat is a strange combination of gasp, cry, and moan.

Sherlock’s long white back is riddled with scars. Long deep silver cuts, purple gouges. A few small circular holes that look like healed burns. Somehow, some way, John had never seen them. Even when taking care of Sherlock after he was shot, he never saw his back. There was always an unbuttoned shirt, or a dressing gown, or something covering Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock…” John’s whisper is choked.

“And THAT is why I wouldn’t have taken you with me, John, regardless. Because they would have done that to you, too, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop it. And I could NOT let that happen to you, John. I wasn’t out having some grand adventure without you. I was barely able to keep myself alive, without having to worry about you. I at least knew you were back in London, unaware and reasonably safe. And I would really rather not think about it, talk about the cigarettes or the meat hook or the knives or the fucking blow torch—” John has really never heard Sherlock use profanity, “but as you apparently STILL don’t get it, we might as well. Although I don’t think I’d like to talk about this ever again, either.”

“Sher-Sherlock…” John calls as Sherlock stomps out of the sitting room and into his bedroom. The sight of Sherlock’s ruined back has sobered him up quite a bit. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. There’s a peculiar scratching in his throat and his eyes are burning and John is just about to get up and follow when he hears Sherlock again.

“This was the phone I used, John, while I was away.” Sherlock stomps out into the sitting room, brandishing a scratched, chipped, practically destroyed iPhone. “Mycroft insisted I carry it, he was the only one who had the number. It was untraceable by everyone save him. It’s how he found me. I have no idea how those idiots didn’t find it and take it away, except that they were stupid.” He clicks something on the phone, turns his back to John. He hasn’t put his shirt back on and the silver and purple scars on his white back are angry in the dim lamplight. “I never wanted you to see. My back, the phone. Ever. But since you insist on remaining so blind, here.

“I did think of you. If you believe nothing else, John, please believe that I scarcely thought of anything else.”

With that, Sherlock drops the phone on the table besides John’s chair and stomps back to his room. The door bangs shut and John hears the lock click over his own harsh breathing. John remains absolutely still, stunned into silence, for several moments. He hears the glass door connecting Sherlock’s room to the bathroom open and close, another click of a lock as he locks the door to the kitchen. Water starts running, and John is still breathing hard, fast and uneven. He sinks back into the chair, closes his eyes as bile rises in his throat. John takes a few shuddering breaths and tries to will the nausea away.

This was not how he was expecting it to go.

At all.

After a few moments, John reaches over to the table and picks up the phone. The screen is cracked and chipped, and there are a few spatters of dark material John has a sick feeling is blood. The phone is open to the Draft message page. It is quite full, filled with unsent emails to John’s address. He’s had the same address the entire time he’s known Sherlock. He’s a little shocked Sherlock even knew his email. But the messages are all unsent. Saved, but unsent.

There are hundreds.

**“John, I hope you are safe.”**

**“John, I’ve cut off contact with nearly everyone. Even Mycroft. He helped. It’s safer this way, for all of us.”**

**“John, Molly knows. I wish I could tell you to go speak to Molly. But I can’t. And she knows she can’t speak to you.”**

**“John, I imagine you’ve gone back to the clinic.”**

**“John, I saw your blog. Thank you. I believe in you, too.”**

**“Thank you for not forgetting me. I’ll never forget you, no matter what happens.”**

**“I’m sorry you don’t have more photos of me, John.”**

**“I killed a man today, John. I know he wasn’t a very good man but I can’t sleep. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.”**

John swallows hard. Of course Sherlock had never killed anyone before. That had been his job.

**“I wish you were here. I now realize how intolerable casework is without you.”**

**“There was a lunar eclipse, John. Did you see it too? I think I’ll start learning about the solar system. I won’t delete it this time.”**

**“John, I’ve nearly been in contact so many times but I was worried I’d say something indiscreet.”**

**“I can’t see the stars, tonight, John. I don’t like it.”**

**“I’m in America and I saw a jumper that looked like your oatmeal-colored one. They have terrible taste here, too.”**

**“Who is Mary?”**

John can’t help but chuckle. Leave it to Sherlock to pick up on that comment.

**“America is boring. Everyone here is so chipper and eager to talk. It’s hateful.”**

**“I killed another man today.”**

**“Your prose hasn’t improved, John.”**

**“I was thinking of making an account and commenting, John. But then you stopped?”**

**“This was a close one, John. I just barely got out.”**

**“I think a cut on my back is infected.”**

**“I hate doctors, John. You’re the only one I can tolerate.”**

John vaguely hears the water in the loo shut off, the door to Sherlock’s room open and close again. He has been reading a long time.

**“I’m back in Europe, John.”**

**“I miss you.”**

There are over a hundred saved messages; John would venture to guess Sherlock typed one almost every day he was able to **.**

**“Last night I had a dream we were running through London. I want so badly to go back to that.”**

**“I hope you’re happy, John.”**

**“I miss you.”**

**“Sometimes I wish I actually was a machine, like you think.”**

**“Eastern Europe is awful, John.”**

**“Mycroft has been in contact, he knows I’m here. Maybe I can come home soon.”**

**“I’m breaking into a lodge, John. I think you’d enjoy it.”**

He’s down to the last few messages. They’re all dated early October 2013.

**“I got out, John. I don’t know how but I did. I’m lucky they didn’t find the phone. Idiots.”**

**“It’s very cold here, John. I could use one of your jumpers.”**

John shivers. He’s suddenly very cold, himself. The last few drafts are all saved the same day.

**“I miss you so much, John.”**

**“I don’t like this John. I’m scared.”**

**“There are helicopter lights, John.”**

**“They’re getting closer, I think. I have to run. I may not get out of this one, John.”**

**“If Mycroft finds me, he’ll know to get this to you.”**

**“I tried John. I tried to get back to you. I’m not sure I know what love is, but if you get this, please know that what I feel for you is the closest approximation I can imagine.”**

Like before, the truth is more than John can take, and he vomits on the carpet in front of his chair.

 ~~

An hour later, John sends his last response and slumps against the wall. He is sitting on the floor outside Sherlock’s door, desperately answering the messages, hoping harder than he has ever hoped that Sherlock is reading them. After he cleaned up the floor and himself, he didn’t know what else to do.

John doesn’t know what else to do now that he’s finished. Will Sherlock answer him? Will it be enough? Will it be a enough of a gesture to signify his contrition, his acceptance that this entire time he has been the one who didn’t understand? John is angrier than he’s ever been in his life. Not at Sherlock, not Mycroft, not even really Mary, anymore. He’s angry at himself. He’s angry that he never bothered to ask, that he just assumed. What was it his mother used to always say? _Assume and you make an ASS of YOU and ME._ Except there are no asses this time. There’s nothing but him and his misunderstanding and the fact that he terribly hurt his best friend. His best everything. His savior, in more than one way. John has resented the wrong person for those two years. He brings his knees up to his chest and presses his forehead against his arms. He still feels nauseated. He had no idea, and he hates himself for it.

After several long minutes of silence, he hears a lock click.


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock lies in silence for several long minutes, breathing hard. The screen looks blurry through his tears. Carefully, one by one, he goes through and saves every message. He moves it to the folder simply labeled “John.” Then, one by one, he goes through and takes a screen shot of every message. His brain practically boils at the banal sentiment of the acts, but he feels compelled to do it. For all he knows, this is all he’ll get from John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this whole story was inspired by [lemmonysnippets](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/), particularly
> 
> [this post](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/post/92692323805/one-word-sherlock-that-is-all-i-would-have)
> 
> And [this post](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/post/92729903435/au-where-everything-is-how-i-want-it-to-be-and-i).

Sherlock lies curled on his side on top of the duvet. The lights are off, but his always open blinds allow strips of light from the street to streak across the room. Despite its luxurious thread count, the duvet feels scratchy and uncomfortable, even through the thin cotton of his pajama pants and his dressing gown. He feels both numb and overwhelmed. It’s these times when he truly envies people like John and Molly and George; he wants to shut off. He wants to slow his mind to almost nothing and just pass out into oblivion where he doesn’t have to think.

While he was away, Sherlock had actually conditioned himself well to sleep almost human lengths of time. Huddled away, nothing much to do aside from track criminals and cover his tracks, Sherlock slept. Aside from the few days after the times he killed someone, he actually slept quite well. He usually dreamt of John. John would have been proud. When he returned to London, the mania returned. Now, after the Showdown, Sherlock wishes he could sleep like he used to during those two years.

His phone pings.

Sherlock ignores it, retreats back into the buzzing inside his skull.

His phone pings again.

And again.

And again.

Sherlock is good at ignoring things, until it becomes something he can’t explain.

Twenty pings later, he finally rolls over and looks at his phone. Twenty-three missed messages so far. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. All from John’s number.

**I am safe Sherlock. Where are you?**

**Oh, I’m sure you’ll miss Mycroft. Ha. Please stay connected to me.**

**You know, Molly is acting strange. Perhaps I should take her out for a pint.**

**Not yet. I can barely get out of bed, Sherlock. How am I supposed to work?**

**I’ll always believe in you, Sherlock.**

John is answering the unsent messages. One by one.

**How could I ever forget you, Sherlock? Please don’t forget me, wherever you are.**

**I’m worried I’ll forget the color of your eyes, without a photo to remind me.**

**It never really gets easier, Sherlock. I’m here. Sleep.**

**I wish you were here, too. It’s boring going into the fridge and not seeing a severed head.**

**I saw it, Sherlock.**

Sherlock’s stomach cramps, a strange, dull ache he’s never felt before as he reads the messages. They keep coming, even after he has caught up and it’s a few moments before another one comes in. John is just as bad a typist on a phone as he is on his laptop.

**You should, Sherlock. Please hit send, Sherlock. Always hit send.**

**Is it cloudy there? It’s cloudy here tonight, too.**

**You love my oatmeal colored sweater. I’d buy you one for Christmas, if you were here.**

**Just a nurse from my old clinic. She’s interested in my blog. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’m so lonely without you here, Sherlock. I need to talk to somebody.**

**I’m sure the Americans find you charming, too.**

**I would have killed him for you, Sherlock. I’d kill anyone who came near you.**

**Ha, ha. At least people read my blog.**

**I had to, Sherlock. I have to try and move on. I hate it, but I do.**

Every message. Sherlock can’t believe it. A droplet of something lands on the screen and he realizes he is actually crying.

**What happened, Sherlock? Where are you? I’ll come and get you. No more close calls.**

**Go to the doctor, Sherlock.**

**You still have to go to the doctor, Sherlock.**

**Tell me where? I’ll be there as soon as I can.**

**I miss you, too.**

**I’m not, Sherlock. I’m surviving, but I’m not happy. Come home.**

**I dream about that too, Sherlock.**

**You’re not a machine. You are the most human, human being I’ve ever known. The best man I’ve ever known.**

Sherlock has to close his eyes a moment, try to even his breathing. More tears are forced out and down his cheek. He’s been reading close to an hour. And the messages are still coming.

**I can imagine. I’ve not heard good things.**

**Maybe I should go to Mycroft. Force him to bring you back home. Think I could?**

**A lodge? Are there antlers on the wall?**

**Where are you Sherlock? What happened? Don’t stop until you’re far away from there. Call me when you’re far away.**

**Your circulation is awful. Get some branches to protect yourself against the wind. Snow is a good insulator. Build a fire, but only if you can.**

**I can’t tell you how much I miss you, Sherlock.**

**Don’t be scared. I’m here, I’m here. I’ll always be here. Sherlock.**

**Get under the branches, Sherlock! Or in a ditch! HIDE.**

**Run. Run fast, Sherlock.**

**Please Sherlock, come back. Come home. I need you.**

**For me. Please. Hold on, for me.**

Sherlock lies in silence for several long minutes, breathing hard. The screen looks blurry through his tears. Carefully, one by one, he goes through and saves every message. He moves them to the folder simply labeled “John.” Then, one by one, he goes through and takes a screen shot of every message. His brain practically boils at the banal sentiment of the acts, but he feels compelled to do it. For all he knows, this is all he’ll get from John.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do now. This isn’t his area, emotions and feelings and humans and John is the embodiment of all of it. He clears his mind and briefly enters his Mind Palace, running past locked doors, remnants of all the times he’s allowed his emotions to get the better of him and cause disaster. All the times he let his guard down and was hurt for it. Redbeard. The Woman. And of course, John. But he’s never locked the door on John. How could he, the one person who didn’t belittle him or sneer behind his back or take without returning?

Sherlock had always thought John was his friend for the excitement he provided. And it never bothered him, John was an asset and put himself in danger many times for Sherlock. He never looked down on him or laughed at him or made him feel less than human. John had always seemed to cherish him, but he always wondered what would happen when he couldn’t provide the lifestyle John craved.

These texts make Sherlock question that, just a bit.

Obviously John hadn’t been truly happy with Mary, Sherlock knew that. Of course he knew that. And Sherlock had gotten a sharp bit of pleasure out of John’s misery, if only because he had been miserable as well. But John’s safety was paramount and pushing him back to Mary had been the only option. He’d really had no doubt that when all was revealed—even if he wishes it hadn’t been revealed in the manner it was—John would see the light and willingly allow Mycroft to take her into custody.

Apart from that, Sherlock hadn’t known what to expect.

He’d been surprised when John returned so soon after the arrest. Especially considering there had been a sizable reward for Mary’s capture from the Americans—several million pounds, in fact—and Sherlock had insisted to Mycroft that it all go to John. He’d made Mycroft swear to never tell John the reward was originally to go to the both of them. Sherlock just assumed John would find a new flat. But then he’d texted and asked if his old room was still available. Sherlock had nearly cried in relief. John was coming home. HOME. Baker Street was John’s home. He even went to the shops to get his favorite beer and ordered take-away from their favorite Chinese place for dinner. But John had ignored the beer and the food and him and everything had been awful since then.

Sherlock would rather be with an awful John than no John at all. He’s admitted that much to himself. John is his light, the only person who doesn’t look down on him and accepts him for the freak he is. No matter the reason. So he’s been doing his best to endure John’s anger, his snide comments. Because he was there. That morning, when John came down and threatened to leave, Sherlock had been terrified. He couldn’t lose his light. Not again. John was his first true friend, really the only friend he’d some to trust. No matter what John’s motivation.

But his chiding had been too much. It had been hurtful and cruel, and more than Sherlock could handle. He would take John’s anger, take his resentment, but when he accused Sherlock of not caring for him, not trusting him, Sherlock’s walls had crashed involuntarily. Their lives were dangerous and in reality, neither of them really knew when a case would be the last one. And Sherlock would be damned if he died—again—with John thinking all his actions were in self-interest alone.

Although maybe it was self-interest, in the end. Because Sherlock wouldn’t be able to endure a world without John in it. Maybe he was selfish in that regard. But it didn’t change the fact that Sherlock had done everything he had for John. Always him. He’d be lost without him. Even if the relationship they shared would never be the relationship Sherlock had been forced to admit he wanted while he was away, it was still SOMETHING. Something was better than NOTHING.

And then he was sure he ruined it. Emotion. Sentiment. It was an exercise that always resulted in the worst results, where Sherlock was concerned. He had locked himself in the bathroom, climbed into the shower so he could try and wash his shame away under the hot water. He was sure the next time John would come to speak to him it would be to explain how he was flattered but he would never feel the same and then nothing would ever be the same between them. And then it would slowly unravel, and he would be alone, again.

Until Sherlock saw the messages. One by one, carefully composed to specifically address his messages, and Sherlock hated himself for the way his heart had clenched, at the sentiment he couldn’t help but read in the words. John didn’t declare himself the way Sherlock clumsily had, but at least he had let Sherlock know that he cherished him, too. That he had thought of him during those two years. And Sherlock ached thinking about how John had yearned too. It hurt him to think about how John had hurt. Sentiment. It is AWFUL. But maybe this meant, at the very least, John wouldn’t go away.

Sherlock steels himself, wiping his face—he hates crying, hates when people know he’s been crying—and takes a few steadying breaths. Then, very quietly, he gets up and unlocks the door. Sherlock isn’t exactly inviting John in so much as allowing him to make the decision. He can do what he wants: continue the dance and pretend it’s never happened—as they’ve done with most things—or confront it and finally, FINALLY discuss what’s going on. It’s a huge gesture on Sherlock’s part, seeing as he’s just completely bared himself to someone. All the walls are down, so why not? It’s already all out in the open, and John didn’t scoff or sneer or laugh. He responded, in his own way. He might as well take his chances now.

Sherlock silently pads back to his bed, curls on his side and brings his knees up. He faces away from the door. He tries to quell the sharp hope in his chest that has sprung from John’s messages. In all likelihood, John has already gone up to his room.

A few minutes pass, and Sherlock hears his bedroom door open quietly. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t say anything. He can almost feel John’s eyes burning into his back and feels pitifully small, but it’s only a few moments until he feels the mattress dip under the weight of another body.  

John doesn’t say anything as he slides over and curls himself up behind Sherlock, pressing flush against his back. Sherlock stiffens when John’s arm snakes around his waist, hand resting on his belly. He feels John press his forehead between his shoulder blades. His face feels warm through the slippery silk of his dressing gown.

“I’m so sorry.” John’s voice is rough. Sherlock doesn’t answer him, but he shifts slightly in John’s embrace. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. You should have told me…I wish you would have told me! But I’m so, so sorry.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is shaky. He doesn’t know what to do. John’s never held him like this. They’ve hugged, a few times, brief grasps that were fleeting but that Sherlock had meticulously filed away in his Mind Palace. This is new. This is even new outside of John. He is pressed flat against his back, arm around his waist. One of John’s calves has pushed between Sherlock’s and his thumb is brushing back and forth on his abdomen. It’s new and it’s strange and it’s wonderful and Sherlock has no idea what it means.

“Shhhh,” John squeezes a bit. “No talking. You don’t need to talk. I know now. I see. And I’m so, so sorry.” His voice cracks, just a bit. Sherlock hears it. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I doubted you. I’m so sorry you were alone…you’ve been alone. Please. Forgive me.”

“John, I—there’s nothing, you didn’t…” Sherlock forces words out in response, but they really have no meaning. He doesn’t know where they’re going. They’re just words. Sherlock can’t begin to know what to say.

“NO. No, I did.” He squeezes again. “Fucking Christ, Sherlock. WHY didn’t you tell me?!?”

“I—I didn’t, I mean, I couldn’t…I don’t…I didn’t think it’d be right…”

“RIGHT? Fuck, Sherlock. Who gives a shit if it would have been ‘right?’” His calf pushes farther between Sherlock’s. “You SHOULD have told me!”

Once again, Sherlock isn’t quite sure what exactly John thinks he should have told him. About why he jumped? About what happened when he was away? About how he’s been madly in love with him—is that what this is? Love? It seems so superficial—possibly since their first dinner together? When he realized he’d never again be content without John’s friendship, his companionship, his simple presence?

“I—”

“WHAT did they do to you?!?” John interrupts him, pressing his forehead more tightly into Sherlock’s back. Well, that clears that up, at least.

“I showed you.”

“Nothing else? They, they didn’t do anything else?”

“It was enough, John…”

“Because, if they did…are they dead?” John’s thumb stops moving. “Did Mycroft kill them? Tell me he killed them.” Sherlock has never heard John sound so murderous. He can feel him trembling slightly, vibrating with what he thinks is rage.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I assume so, though.”

“Alright, alright,” he feels John take a calming breath against his back. Sherlock can’t help but shiver when he feels him exhale, the air from his lungs sweeping past the thin material of his gown and down his spine. John’s toes curls against his calf.

“You should have told me, Sherlock. Everything. You should have TOLD ME. So much bullshit…everything. GODDAMMIT, Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me?!”

“John, I—I couldn’t. I’m sorry, I—”

“NO. No, Sherlock, you will not feel sorry for this. Not this. I don’t want you to feel sorry for this. I didn’t deserve your honesty, not—not after…no. I won’t listen to you apologize for nothing. I just, I—I just want to know why you didn’t say anything. I trust you thought it was the right thing—fuck, Sherlock, I’ll never doubt you again,” Sherlock can’t be sure, but he thinks he almost feels John’s lips on his back through his gown. “I want to know what I did. What made you not want to tell me.”

“I—” Sherlock is immensely glad John can’t see his face. “You were happy. And Mycroft warned me, and I didn’t listen…and you were happy and then you were mad, at me, and I missed you so much but you were happy and you hated me—”

“No, Sherlock. NO. I never hated you. I was mad, but please, please know I never hated you. I could never hate you,” John chuckles darkly. “I was mad. So mad. I couldn’t believe you’d left and I thought you didn’t care enough to, and—no, I was mad, but I never hated you. That night, I slept better than I did in two years. I was mad and I had never been so happy to be so angry.”

“John.”

“If I could go back and change it, I would.” John squeezes again, just slightly. “Would you have told me then? If I had reacted differently?” John’s no longer asking about his time away. Sherlock can hear it in his voice, a plaintive note just slightly different from his previous questions.

“I don’t know, John.” Sherlock is honest. “I…I couldn’t, you had…” he doesn’t want to say it. _You had Mary, and that was the nail in the coffin._ John hears what he’s saying even though he doesn’t say it.

“I had a piss-poor replacement, one who caused us more trouble and almost took you away again,” John finishes for him. “Fuck. If I had known,” he whispers, “I wouldn’t have tried to fill the hole, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s brows knit in confusion. He’s not sure what to make of John’s statement. Is it a declaration of sorts? An admittance? God, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and he’s always been terrible at sentiment and people and why, why couldn’t he be better, at least when it comes to John?

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. John doesn’t speak anymore, but he doesn’t move and his thumb continues to stroke Sherlock’s stomach through his dressing gown. He feels remarkably warm and despite the confusion and turmoil, he feels safe. Even if this was all he’d ever get from John, Sherlock feels he could be quite happy and fulfilled to just feel this. John’s embrace is strong and steady and slowly, carefully, Sherlock moves one hand to cover his. Just lightly, the smallest shift. Almost as if it were an accident. Sherlock is shocked when John immediately intertwines their fingers. His hand is small and warm and strong.

They lay together silently for several moments, Sherlock scarcely daring to breath. He wants to say something but he doesn’t know what to say, what would be Good and what would be a Bit Not Good, what would keep John with him and what would send him away. So he doesn’t say anything.

After what feels like much too little time, John gently releases Sherlock’s fingers and pulls his arm away. He pushes himself up and away from Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock can’t help it when his breath wavers and shakes as he exhales. He immediately doesn’t like the loss of John’s touch against him, and he steels himself for this being it. A few minutes of comfort. It’ll be alright, though, Sherlock thinks, so long as John doesn’t go away again.

“Sherlock,” he says firmly. “Show me your back.”

John’s demand takes Sherlock by surprise. “I showed you.”

The room is flooded with light as John reaches over to the lamp on the nightstand and flips it on. “I need to see it again, Sherlock.”

“John…”

“Please, Sherlock.” John comes back and gently grips his shoulder. “I need to see.” He gently, very gently, hauls Sherlock up into a sitting position and Sherlock can’t help but let him. He had no idea John could be so gentle, even manhandling him as he is. He should have expected it, John is a talented doctor and surgeon and it’s not like he’s never treated Sherlock’s wounds before. But this feels different, as he gently reaches around to untie Sherlock’s dressing gown, then softly slips the material from his shoulders.

“Christ,” John hisses through his teeth and Sherlock instinctively curls in on himself, shoulders slumping slightly. He hates the marks on his back, hates that they remind him of his time away from John and his failures at what he was doing. They bested him, would have killed him if Mycroft hadn’t stepped in. And Sherlock hates that John is now closely examining the evidence of his weakness.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he feels one finger reach out and gently trace a particularly deep scar that runs down his right scapula, twists back toward his spine. That one is from a length of barbed wire, twisted into a whip of sorts. That was after his first real run in with someone who he almost couldn't beat, the deep wound that had become inflamed and required a few days in a Mexican hospital receiving IV vancomycin. John’s experienced doctor’s hands shift him just slightly, lean his body forward so he can get a better view. “Who stitched these up, Sherlock?” He gently touches another, farther down. Sherlock shivers at the close proximity of John’s fingers to his iliac crest.

“They, they ripped…” Sherlock regrets it as soon as it comes out of his mouth. He knows John will put two and two together, connect the poorly healed wounds on his back to his rather violent reaction to Sherlock’s return.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John’s voice cracks a bit and it’s all he says, but his fingers continue to stroke lightly across the dips and raises and holes in Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock is frozen in place.

“John…” he finally croaks, “please, it’s not important, it doesn’t matter….”

“Shhhhhh, Sherlock,” John silences him, raises his hands to grip his shoulders gently. “I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. I will never, even stop being sorry.” He squeezes gently.

“John, you don’t—JOHN!” Sherlock stiffens when he feels John’s lips, soft and tender, press against a cigarette burn on his left shoulder.

“I do, Sherlock,” John’s lips move to a mark on his other shoulder, then down to the deep gouge he traced earlier with his fingers. Sherlock shivers when he thinks he feels the wet tip of John’s tongue against his skin. “And I swear to you, I swear on everything,” his lips press again, “I will never allow anybody to hurt you again.” John’s right hand comes around and presses deliberately against the small scar on Sherlock’s chest, where Mary’s bullet pierced him. “Never, never again.” John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s front, locking his hands together. He rests his chin on Sherlock’s left shoulder and turns his face into his neck. “Never, Sherlock. I don’t deserve your trust, but believe that.”

“John.” Sherlock’s mind is racing, unable to make sense of the situation. He desperately tries to pull patterns together, searching for what he missed, what would explain the scene unfolding. He feels as if he is watching it play out from outside his body, can see himself slumped on the bed, John Watson wrapped around him from behind. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit and Sherlock is desperately trying not to let his emotions run wild, not to hope, because he knows he’ll shatter when the truth of the matter reveals itself. But would John be so cruel? Would he, knowing how Sherlock has desperately bared himself, exposing himself to ridicule and rejection, play with him this way? He doesn’t know what’s going on and the buzz in his head is overpowering the intoxicating feeling of John’s warmth against him, the heady scent of soap and aftershave and laundry detergent that is so perfectly John, the exquisite sound of—

“Stop.” John whispers, rocks slightly. “I can hear that brain of yours whirring away. Just stop, you idiot. Just…stop thinking.” His voice is rough but the tone is remarkably gentle.

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes sting. “I can’t, you can’t—I, I couldn’t bear it if you…”

“I know,” John pushes his nose into frizzy, air-dried curls, inhales. He unwinds his arms and shifts slightly around, so he can look more directly at Sherlock. His hand comes up to Sherlock’s cheek and guides his face around to look at him. Sherlock looks up at John’s face through his lashes and he’s never, ever seen someone look at him with such kindness, such unbridled tenderness. He almost thinks his heart—he does have one, after all—will shatter, knowing this moment will end and he’ll never again see someone look at him that way. “I won’t,” John’s eyes stare directly into his, warm and unblinking. “I promise. I won’t.” His thumb strokes across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone.

“John,” it’s too much, it’s too much for Sherlock and he feels the need to run.  He wants to escape, before he embarrasses himself further and completely destroys whatever this is, whatever sympathy and concern and compassion John is affording him, but before he can force himself to move, he sees John’s eyes close and feels his lips, warm and soft and just the slightest bit moist, against his own.

Before he can react, before his brain can register the spark of electricity that runs up his spine or the explosion of neurotransmitters from his limbic system, John pulls back. Just slightly, his nose is still touching Sherlock’s.

“I promise. I won’t. Ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, these guys are stupid.


	3. Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t pity, Sherlock,” John can’t help but laugh a bit, the concept is so ridiculous to him. Sherlock shoots him a look that cuts it off immediately. John closes his mouth and swallows hard.
> 
> “Then what is it? You don’t like men!”
> 
> “I like you,” John simply states. “And you don’t like anyone, or at least I never really thought you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this whole story was originally inspired by a post by [lemmonysnippets](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/), particularly
> 
> [this post](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/post/92692323805/one-word-sherlock-that-is-all-i-would-have)
> 
> And [this post](http://lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com/post/92729903435/au-where-everything-is-how-i-want-it-to-be-and-i).
> 
> It spiraled out of control from there, but credit where credit is due. :)

John brings his other hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, so he can cradle that beautiful face. He smiles warmly, but Sherlock is frozen, eyes roaming across John’s face, nose crinkled in confusion.

“Stop trying to deduce, you idiot,” John murmurs with more tenderness he even thought himself capable of, and rubs his nose just slightly against Sherlock’s. Gently, very gently, he presses his lips against Sherlock’s again.

John’s seen Sherlock kiss people before—Janine—and he honestly didn’t know what happened with Irene.   But any doubt he’d had about Sherlock’s actions with either of them are erased as he kisses him a second time. Sherlock is still frozen, his lips twitching slightly. They don’t freeze up but they aren’t pliant either, and John is suddenly overwhelmed with a bright flash of possession-tinged affection.

“Never done this before, have you?” John pulls back and chuckles, leans his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Not for real?”

“No,” Sherlock whispers timidly, brings his fingertips up to brush against the spot where John’s lips just touched.

“Then I guess I finally have something to teach you, eh?” John squeezes Sherlock’s neck, something he’d always done anyway, even when they were just best friends. They’re still best friends, but if John has his way, they’ll be more than that soon. He leans his mouth in for another kiss but Sherlock cuts him off.

“John, no…” he leans back and twists away. John’s hands are still on his face, but his mouth is now out of reach.

“No, Sherlock?” His thumb brushes over a sharp cheekbone. “Did I misunderstand, again?” John chuckles in an effort to reduce the tension, but he swallows hard. Shit. Did he misunderstand again? Sherlock said he loved him, didn’t he? Well, not so much say it as…anyway, he did. Or does love mean something different to Sherlock than others? Fuck, now John doesn’t know.

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock says sadly. He’s staring at an invisible spot on the duvet, not looking at John.

“Well, that’s good,” John sighs in relief and leans over to kiss Sherlock’s temple. It’s a nibbling, teasing sort of kiss. “Come here, then…” he makes a move for Sherlock’s mouth again but Sherlock pulls back even farther. John sighs and removes his hands. He runs over identity terminology and categories in his head, picked up at a conference on medical communication. John’s out of his element. Well, he’s always been out of his element with Sherlock. It’s part of why he adores him so much. But…this could definitely put a monkey-wrench in the plans he had when he first opened Sherlock’s bedroom door. “No, you don’t like kissing, then?”

“NO, John!” Sherlock pulls completely away, pouts on the bed. Despite the seriousness of the situation, John smiles inwardly at the man in front of him. Sherlock is rumpled and his eyebrows are knit together and he looks sad and lost and quite adorable. John wants to kiss the pout away but…that may not fly. “I like it…well, I think I’d like it. With you. And I don’t want pity from you…”

“This isn’t pity, Sherlock,” John can’t help but laugh a bit, the concept is so ridiculous to him. Sherlock shoots him a look that cuts it off immediately. John closes his mouth and swallows hard.

“Then what is it? You don’t like men!”

“I like you,” John simply states. “And you don’t like anyone, or at least I never really thought you did.”

“And that’s just it John, I never did. Not until you, not really. Whether it was willful or unconscious or just was, I never really did. There was always so much more to do. The closest I’ve ever come was Irene, and that’s an aberration compared to this. A shade. I could have taken that or left it, in the end it was nothing. But you…John, everything is you. I don’t want to do anything unless you’re there with me. And it’s so stupid and dull and sentimental and when it’s over I’ll have nothing. Because it will be over, this isn’t you. And I want you to kiss me so much, to do anything, and that’s why I can’t let you, because I’d rather have just a bit of you than everything and have it all be ruined, because you don’t—”

“Oh Jesus, Sherlock,” John scoots closer and takes Sherlock’s face in his hands again, turning him so he can look in his eyes. His face is scrunched and angry and John can actually see Sherlock trying to rebuild the walls. He gets it now. Sherlock doesn’t think the depth of John’s feelings run as deep as his. He thinks this is pity, perhaps a power-play to get his forgiveness. Sentiment has never ended well for Sherlock. He leans forward and kisses where Sherlock’s nose is crinkled in confusion before he can pull away again. “I do. Please believe I do.”

“John, please, I couldn’t bear it if…”

“I don’t want to ruin anything either. Believe that. Believe that I cherish your very existence too much to do anything that would drive you away. If you don’t want this, I’ll stop, we’ll stop. But I’m telling you this is something I want. This isn’t pity, Sherlock, I respect and love you too much to pity you like this.”

“Don’t just say that, John.”

“I’m not, Sherlock.”

“You—you went away. You never—”

“Well, I’m sure the blame probably rests on both of us. And you went away, too. I understand why, now. And all I can say is that I wish you’d told me, because it would have changed everything. Everything, Sherlock.”

“But you’ve never…”

“I know. And I can’t explain it really, either. But does it really matter?” John lowers his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, squeezes gently. “Hmmmm?”

“I don’t know, does it? Will you leave again when you find a…someone more suited to you?”

“I think you suit me pretty well, Sherlock,” John rubs up and down his bare shoulders lightly, watches in delight as Sherlock shivers slightly at the motion. “You filled a hole I didn’t know I had. Then you were gone and I tried to find a way to fill it, which turned out awful at best, if you ask me. But now you’re here again and I’m finally here again, and if we can both be on the same page with this, I think it could be more than either of us ever imagined.”

“Are we on the same page?” Sherlock looks down again, and his voice is barely a whisper. John sees the same thing he saw at the pool that night several years ago, a lost child out of his element. A thirty-seven-year-old child. Even if he wasn’t attracted to him, he’d still do anything he could to reassure Sherlock that he was here, and that he would always be here.

“Well, I very much want to kiss you again, so…yeah. Yeah, I think we finally are.” John reaches back and squeezes Sherlock’s neck again. His mind flits to the future briefly, wondering if maybe from now on he won’t need some platonic reason to do this. “Can I?”

“John?” Sherlock looks up into John’s eyes, and the hopefulness and fear he sees written on Sherlock’s face directly pierces John’s heart. His nose is crinkled in confusion again.

“You heard me, you tit,” John ruffles his frizzy hair, then runs his fingers through it gently. Sherlock leans into the touch, just a bit, his eyes still on John’s. “Can I kiss you again?”

Sherlock crooks a smile, that half smile that John knows is really only for him, and then pulls a haughty face. “If you want to,” he shrugs half-heartedly, as if John had just asked him if he wanted a cup of tea and John can see instantly through the charade. Sherlock’s eyes sparkle in the lamp-light and his lips tilt up again.

“You’re an arse,” John rolls his eyes but pulls Sherlock’s face back to his. He presses his lips more firmly against Sherlock’s, and is delighted when they respond this time, even if, well…they really have no idea what they’re doing. But the kiss is warm and firm and John shivers as something warm blooms in his stomach. John’s tongue slips out and runs along Sherlock’s full top lip, and he isn’t expecting it when he jerks and his mouth opens on instinct.

John licks his way inside Sherlock’s mouth and his tongue tentatively reaches out to meet him. His mouth is wet and sweet and still tastes a bit like scotch. John is also glad he had the foresight to brush his teeth after he cleaned up the rug in the sitting room. Sherlock’s kissing is clumsy and inexperienced but he’s so enthusiastic John almost can’t bring himself to correct him. He pulls away briefly and is delighted when Sherlock’s mouth instinctively moves to follow him.

“Like this, love,” John angles Sherlock’s head with his hands then dives back in. He just sees Sherlock’s eyes widen at the endearment then his mind is consumed with teeth and tongues and _Sherlock_. Low rumbles are coming from Sherlock’s throat, his large hands stroking up and down John’s back. The kiss grows more animalistic as John kisses Sherlock harder and with more fervor than he’s ever kissed anyone in his life. There’s never been anyone like Sherlock in his life, and John feels like he’s watching a movie, watching himself from the far corner of the room, devouring Sherlock’s mouth.

John pulls up just briefly to swallow, then roughly pulls Sherlock back to him so he’s practically in his lap. Sherlock’s dressing gown, still half on his forearms, has become tangled around them and John tries to pull it off him without breaking the frantic kiss. It’s almost too much and it’s still not nearly enough and John is struggling to breath as Sherlock is literally sucking the air from his lungs through the kiss.

“Fucking Christ, Sherlock,” John pulls away and presses their foreheads together, panting hard. It’s too hot in the room, Sherlock’s breath is too hot on his face and John wants more. Sherlock is also breathing hard, lips red and swollen, a bit of saliva on his chin. John doesn’t know whose it is. “Sherlock…”

“John,” Sherlock looks up at him through his eyelashes. His pupils are blown with desire and he’s trembling softly. A blush is creeping up his white neck. One leg is on either side of John’s and he can feel an erection growing against his thigh. John can actually feel his pulse, throbbing through the thin pajama pants and his jeans. Or maybe it’s John’s pulse, throbbing from his crotch. John doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.

“How far do you want this to go, Sherlock? Tonight…how much do you want?” John licks his lips, then leans in to lick Sherlock’s cheekbone. He nuzzles and sucks down his cheek, stubble delightful against his tongue, and pants in his ear. Sherlock grunts and grabs John’s forearms to steady himself when he feels teeth on his earlobe. “I’ll eat you alive if you let me,” his mouth moves to Sherlock’s neck and sucks hard. There will be a bruise in the morning, and the thought of the bright purple against Sherlock’s milky white skin makes John suck harder, before running his tongue along the cord of his neck and working his way back to his chin.

“John,” Sherlock rasps, trying to catch his mouth again, but John stops him.

“How much, Sherlock?”

“All of it,” Sherlock exhales hard, his eyes fluttering closed. “I want all of you, John. I have for so long…please.”

John has to swallow around the lump of emotion in his throat before he can speak. Seeing Sherlock like this, open and bare like this, it’s almost unbearable. “Good,” he catches Sherlock’s mouth again, whispers against his tongue. “Good…”

The kiss quickly dissolves into panting open mouths and teeth and tongues and somehow John manages to get Sherlock’s dressing gown off his arms the rest of the way. He’s able to get his arms around his bare torso and marvels at the muscles that twitch and flex under his fingers, shudders at the ridges and bumps of his scars—one day he’ll kiss every one—and inwardly rolls his eyes at the bony prominence of each vertebra. Sherlock’s mouth is moving over his face, nipping at his nose and licking at his cheeks, little puffs of breath hot and moist against his skin. The passion and intensity is almost frightening to John, who had no idea Sherlock was capable of such lust. John hadn’t known he was so capable either.

“Take this off me, will you?” he manages to gasp around Sherlock’s roaming mouth, and takes his hands and places them on his chest. Sherlock looks at John and nods fervently, but his fingers are trembling too much to make much work of the buttons on his oxford. After watching him fumble for a few moments, John chuckles and takes hold of his large hands. They’re shaking. “Hey, calm down.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock’s eyes drop. “I’ve never, I mean, I’m not…”

“I know, you tit,” John laughs tenderly, squeezing Sherlock’s hands slightly. “I could tell by the way you kiss.” John teases, then sucks Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth briefly. “I’ll show you.”

“Please,” how Sherlock can make his You’re An Idiot Face when his erection is pressed up against John’s thigh, John doesn’t know. “You hardly know what you’re doing either.”

“I know more than you, you arse,” John nips at his chin, starts unbuttoning his shirt himself. “Now, this is a shirt, and these are buttons, and we…”

“Honestly, John, if you’re going to be like that—”

“You’ll what?” John shrugs his shirt off and pushes on Sherlock’s shoulders, guiding him down onto his back. “Walk out?” He crawls over him and kisses him again, gentler this time. “You want this?”

“You’ll show me?” Sherlock’s eyes are wide and his hands come up around John’s back. One finger finds the exit wound scar on his shoulder and presses lightly.

“Yeah,” John brushes some curls off Sherlock’s forehead. “Maybe. I think,” he cradles Sherlock’s head with his forearms, leans down to lick up his neck. He feels the vibration of Sherlock’s moan against his lips. “And don’t hesitate to touch back,” John murmurs, suckling on Sherlock’s earlobe. Immediately he feels long delicate fingers trailing up and down his back, down into the waist band of his jeans. He shivers, and his cock pulses against the inside of his jeans.

Slowly, John begins to kiss down Sherlock’s collar bone, his sternum. He pauses to tongue the discolored scar on the right side of his chest, and Sherlock sighs and digs his fingers into John’s hair. The whole situation is incredibly surreal, John thinks, as he licks down the white belly in front of him and suddenly he’s at the band of pajama pants. He presses a hard kiss against Sherlock’s bony hip and looks up. Sherlock’s cock is pressing against his throat.

“You sure?” John hooks his thumbs into the waist band.

“Johnnnn…” Sherlock’s breathy sigh borders on the edge of a whine. John sits up, his eyes on Sherlock’s face.

“Look at me,” John slides the cotton pants down just as Sherlock raises his head. He lifts his feet a bit so John can pull them off completely, and then both exhale in unison as John allows himself to look. His breath catches in his throat. Sherlock’s long, white body exposed to him, flushed and aroused, is a sight to behold. John has seen Sherlock nude before, but not this like. He is splotchy and red, chest heaving, with shocks of dark hair on his head and between his thighs. The contrast against his white skin is absolutely beautiful. His cock is hard and long, dark with blood and flush against his concave belly. Saliva gathers in John’s throat when he spots a bead of moisture on the exposed head.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock,” he sighs, swallowing hard. He wasn’t expecting this. He knew he wanted to love Sherlock, to touch him and fuck him and make him feel good, but he never thought he’d actually find him so _beautiful._ “You’re so bloody gorgeous. Have I ever told you that?”

“No,” Sherlock says breathlessly as John’s fingers gently run up his cock. His hips jerk and his head falls back again as John begins to stroke, spreading the moisture that is seeping out of his urethra.

“I’ll tell you every day,” John uses his other hand to gently cradle Sherlock’s balls, rolling the sensitive glands in his palm as he works his shaft. “Tell me when you’re close…”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is strangled and tight. John has never touched another cock, but he knows his own, and from the sounds Sherlock is making he thinks he’s doing alright. And the noises, John may come in his pants just from Sherlock’s cries alone. So unabashed, so pure, he’s gasping and moaning, thrusting up into John’s fist. One of his hands reaches down to grip John’s thigh, fingers digging into him through the denim of his jeans. “John! St-stop!”

John grips the base of Sherlock’s penis, squeezing to hold his orgasm back. John’s a doctor after all; he may never have had sex with a man before, but he certainly knows his way around the male urogenitary system. “Good?” He teases, removing his hand, but continuing to palm Sherlock’s scrotum.

“Y-yes.” Sherlock nods fervently, his curls shaking against the pillow. John lowers his head to lick a bead of sweat that gathered at the top of Sherlock’s thigh.

“Why don’t I give you a minute, then,” he crawls up Sherlock’s body, kisses him thoroughly, sucking on his bottom lip. Then he gets off the bed.

“John?” Sherlock’s eyes open, to see John standing, unbuckling his belt.

“These are getting tight,” John laughs, and unzips his jeans. He has to maneuver them around his jutting cock, swollen and thick in his pants. John doesn’t think he’s ever been so hard, and just the coarse material brushing against him—through cotton briefs!—is almost too much to bear. Sherlock watches him intently, eyes widening when he pulls down his pants and his cock springs free. His foreskin is pulled back, head exposed, and John is leaking copiously. Sherlock licks his lips at the sight.

“John…”

“That’s a bit more comfortable—OH!” Sherlock takes John by surprise, reaching out and wrapping a large hand around his erection. John’s knees buckle and he pitches forward onto the bed, forehead pressed against Sherlock’s belly. He can smell the heady scent of pre-ejaculate from where he is, and he is immensely grateful that Sherlock has no idea what he’s doing, that he’s stroking a bit too lightly, otherwise he’d come right there.

“Sherlock…Sherlock, love, stop,” John grabs his hand and forces him to stop moving. “You gotta stop…I want to fuck you, and I won’t make it that long if you keep doing that.”

“You’re beautiful, John.”

John laughs into Sherlock’s stomach, bites his white skin. “I’m glad you think so.” He turns his face to look at Sherlock, removes his hand from his cock. “I told you I would show you.” John pushes himself up and climbs on the bed, between Sherlock’s legs. They’re long and white and stretch forever. “Let me.” His hand finds Sherlock’s penis again.

“John!” His hips jerk, but John doesn’t stroke. He lowers himself, eyeing the head, until he’s on his elbows on the bed. John thinks back to all the things he enjoys when receiving oral sex, and reaches his tongue out to touch Sherlock’s glans. The cry that erupts from his throat is animalistic as John fully wraps his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock. He tastes heady and slightly bitter and mostly salty, with a hint of soap from his shower and John feels his own cock seep out pre-ejaculate in response. He can actually feel Sherlock’s heartbeat in his mouth, could take his pulse with his tongue if his mind was in the right place, and John has never been so aroused while giving pleasure to another person. Sherlock’s fingers tangle in his short hair, pulling and pressing against his skull as John bobs a bit, not too far down (he doesn’t want to choke on his first try), sucking loudly. Sherlock lifts his left leg and throws it over John's shoulder. He grabs Sherlock’s right hand and squeezes. _I’m here. I’m here and I’m going to take care of you._

After a few moments of sucking—he has already learned that Sherlock likes it when he presses his tongue into the slit of his urethra while he sucks—John lifts his mouth, and licks down Sherlock’s shaft to tongue and suck on his balls. His hand replaces his mouth on Sherlock’s cock, gripping but not stroking, and he tongues down to the bottom of Sherlock’s scrotum. The soft hairs on his perineum tickle John’s chin and the feeling is delightful. Sherlock is above him, moaning and writhing, positively obscene.

Then John has an idea. He knows people do this, he’s a doctor and very little bothers him and why not? John removes his hand from Sherlock’s cock—he whimpers a bit at the loss of contact, and brings them both up to Sherlock’s buttocks, pushing his hips up and back and spreading.

“JOHN!” Sherlock practically screams when he feels John’s tongue circling his anus. John chuckles and nibbles a bit at his perineum, then lowers his mouth to cover the pink ring of muscle again. He sucks, hard. Sherlock is practically sobbing above him and he tastes like sweat and soap. John’s hips rut against the mattress of their own accord as he tongues the tight ring of muscle. He needs to be inside him, now, lest he spill on the sheets.

“Sherlock…”

“John!”

“Sherlock,” John gives one more swipe of his tongue, then rises up to kiss up Sherlock’s torso. “I want to fuck you,” he whispers in Sherlock’s ear, and feels him shiver underneath him. “Say I can…say you’ll let me inside you.”

“Yes,” is all Sherlock says, hands moving to grip John’s arse. He kneeds and pulls his cheeks, and John thinks tomorrow, he'll allow Sherlock to penetrate him.

“Good, good,” John plants an open-mouthed kiss against the side of Sherlock’s face. “We need, we’ll need—I have to get—”

“Under the pillow,” Sherlock moans, arching up. John shudders when their cocks touch. He pulls back and crooks an eyebrow at Sherlock. “What?” His nose crinkles. “I masturbate. So do you.”

“Shit, Sherlock,” John can help but laugh. “Do you think about me?” he teases.

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell,” John leans back in for a kiss, messy and wanton, as his hand digs under the pillow and finds his prize. He pulls the bottle out and pulls out of the kiss. He sits up and flips open the cap. “Raise your knees a bit.” Sherlock complies as John pours some of the viscous fluid onto his fingers, rubbing them together. “Just relax, love.” His hand moves down to below Sherlock’s scrotum, index finger pressing against the tight ring. “Let me in.”

“John!” Sherlock hisses through his teeth as John’s finger sinks inside him. His muscles contract slightly at the intrusion but John knows what he’s looking for. Of course, he’s never given a prostate exam for pleasure before, but the knowledge serves him well when he finds the dense mass of tissue and Sherlock jerks and gulps. “J-Jo—” he can’t even get his name out.

“Found it,” John chuckles, watching a bead of pre-come seep out of Sherlock’s cock as his finger circles and presses. He twists his body and is able to tongue the seeping fluid off Sherlock’s glans as he adds a second finger.

“Ohhhh…” Sherlock’s hands fist the sheets, his hips rising off the mattress to push back at John’s hand. It’s obscene and wonderful and John has to be inside him. Now. He gives a few more twists and scissors of his fingers, pressing against Sherlock’s prostate a few more times. Then John removes his fingers and gently licks at Sherlock’s open mouth.

“I’m going to fuck you now, okay?” John pours more lube onto his fingers, an hisses as he rubs it into his cock. He’s full to bursting. Sherlock nods fervently, eyes closed. “Just relax, Sherlock. And open your eyes. Look at me.” John guides the head of his cock to Sherlock’s opening just as his eyes open. They widen when the head breaches the tight ring of muscle and Sherlock’s breath hitches.

“John…”

“Shhh…I’ve got you. Just relax. Don’t fight it.” John inches inside, slowly, holding his breath. When he’s fully seated he exhales hard, and Sherlock’s head falls back to the pillow. “Are you alright?” He breathes, gently stroking Sherlock’s face.

“You’re inside me,” Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed shut.

“Yes.”

“You’re inside me, John.”

“I know,” John leans down and presses his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Fuck, I know.” He stays still for a few moments, barely wanting to breath, as Sherlock’s muscles shudder and contract around the invasion. He’s tight and hot and John is struggling not to move, struggling not to bury himself in the tight heat as hard as he can, over and over. It’s unbelievable. The sheer intensity makes John want to cry. “Fuck, Sherlock.” Gently, slowly, he shifts his hips and a frisson of electricity shoots down his spine into his balls. Sherlock gasps and moans in response, wrapping his legs fully around John’s back. “Oh, fuck,” John moans as he begins to move in earnest, starting slowly and then picking up speed. “Is this alright?”

“John…” is all Sherlock can answer, a breathy moan. His eyes are still closed, mouth open in wonder as John’s cock slides in and out, thick and hard. John leans down to kiss him, bending his hips up, and Sherlock jerks violently and gasps, his eyes flying open.

“Ha!” John can’t help but laugh and begins to drive more steadily into that angle, watching Sherlock’s face contort at the sensation. It’s incredible, the tug in both his heart and his balls, his hands braced on either side of Sherlock’s head, Sherlock’s feet pressing into his arse. “Like that?”

“Yes!” Sherlock chokes, hands sliding down John’s back. His fingers dig into the flesh of his arse, pulling him closer. “D—don’t stop!”

“Never,” John kisses him, sweeping his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then suddenly reaches around Sherlock’s back and heaves him up, flipping them over. Sherlock’s mouth falls open in surprise and his comes to rest on John’s pelvis, his cock sinking farther up inside him when he’s settled.

“John…”

“Move, Sherlock,” One of John’s hands comes to rest on his hip, the other pressing his hard cock down against his belly. “Find what feels good.”

“John…”

“Move, Sherlock. Please.” And he does. Sherlock starts rocking at different angles and when his eyes open wide and his breath rushes out of him in a gush, John holds his hip in position so he continues to move that way. It won’t be long. John’s testicles are tightening and he can feel Sherlock beginning to tremble, slight contractions of his pelvic muscles around John’s cock.

“John,” one of Sherlock’s hands pressed into John’s shoulder, the other grasping at the hand on his hip as his pelvis rolls, driving the head of John’s cock into that one spot. The friction is glorious, but John won’t let himself come until Sherlock does, he fights it, squeezes harder where Sherlock fucks his stationary fist, then he feels wetness on his belly and Sherlock’s body seizes. Warm fluid spurts up John’s stomach as Sherlock shudders, his breath exiting his lungs as if he’s been punched. Pelvic muscles squeeze around John’s cock and he’s coming too, contracting and spurting up into Sherlock’s body, several contractions, more than John’s used to and then Sherlock is collapsing forward onto his chest.

“John…” Sherlock breaths into his neck as his body shudders and contacts a few more times, John’s hips thrusting up, just a bit, as the last remnants of his climax leave him. He feels Sherlock’s muscles turn to jelly on top of him, sinking into his embrace.

“Sherlock,” John’s hands trace up and down his back gently as they both struggle to catch their breath. He can feel the ridges and dips and notches of Sherlock’s scars under his fingers. He both loves and hates that he can feel them right now.

Tomorrow, John will kiss each one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Note: I'm one of the few Johnlockers/TJLCers who thinks Sherlock was actually attracted to Irene. Search "irene" on my tumblr for an explanation. But of course she never held a candle to John. Because, JOHN.~~
> 
> Ha ha ha everything changed after TAB. Sherlock is as gay as the day is long, but has never loved or will never love anybody but John. John John John.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wish it was more cohesive, but....I had to get it down.
> 
> Also, shout out to all the other borrowed head-canons referenced, as well as the Mary-is-the-villian ideas and the scar ideas. There are way to many to cite here.
> 
> If you so desire (SHAMELESS PLUG), my tumblr is [Whimsical Ethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/).


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